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bap.
    “Don’t fret about wheels,” Vince said. “I’ve sent madam a carriage.”
    *
    Detective Constable Ossama Khan was holding open the passenger door when madam emerged from the house, chin-length hair the colour of Guinness still damp from the shower.
Seconds later, he spotted Bev’s mum chasing after her clutching a Barbie lunchbox. He couldn’t make out what was said during the handover but Bev’s face was a similar shade of
pink by the time she got to the motor. Oz had the nous not to comment.
    The flush couldn’t hide the fact that she was seriously hung over. Her eyes might still be the clearest blue this side of an Optrex ad, but the puffiness around them wasn’t doing her
any favours. And the charcoal smudges beneath were a giveaway; the delicate skin under her eyes always darkened when she was tired. And emotional. He knew that, like he knew about the tiny rose
tattoo on the small of her back, how she cried at soppy films and hated the crumbs when they ate croissants in bed.
    “Morning, Sarge. I take it I’m driving?” He caught a whiff of mint on her breath as she brushed past and plonked herself into the passenger seat. “I’ll take that as
a yes,” he muttered.
    Apart from flared nostrils, he kept his face straight. Oz was well aware she’d been out getting hammered with the girls. Lucky girls. He’d barely seen her apart from work for three
weeks; living with her mum was a hell of an effective contraceptive.
    They drove in silence for a while. Not surprising. Bev was slumped in the seat, hand pressed against her forehead, eyes closed. Oz gave a wry smile. He understood now why she always wore blue
for work. She reckoned it saved time in the mornings if everything you grabbed matched… after a fashion.
    Today’s get-up was a bit pick-and-mix. He didn’t think much of the long navy jacket. He knew she thought it was slimming. Personally, he couldn’t see a problem. At five six and
nine stone, she was hardly porky. At least she’d teamed the jacket with a skirt, which he watched ride up her thighs as she twisted and turned to reach for the lunchbox she’d slung on
to the back seat.
    “Breakfast,” she muttered through a mouthful.
    Oz raised an eyebrow. The explanation was superfluous, given the smell of bacon and brown sauce. He lowered the window a couple of inches but only succeeded in adding rush-hour exhaust fumes to
the odours already circulating round the car’s interior. He sighed, took a left and turned into Butler Street. It was a rat-run off Kings Heath High Street, although it was more like a gentle
meander since the recent installation of traffic-calmers. Oz was keeping an eye peeled for the next turning and inadvertently shot over a sleeping policeman.
    “Nice one, Oz. As if I’m not in danger of throwing up anyway.”
    Given the inroads she was making on the sarnie, the argument didn’t hold a lot of weight, but at least the calorie intake had perked her up a touch.
    “Feeling a bit brighter, are we, Sarge?”
    “Is that another rhetorical question, officer?” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a half-smile, or was it a smirk? “Is there something amusing, Osama? Do share. Do
lighten the load of this dull and dreary Monday morning with one of your merry little jests.”
    He tapped an elegant index finger on the steering wheel. “You always do that when you feel guilty about something.”
    She turned her body to face him; the skirt rose at least another inch. “Do what?”
    “Talk posh. It’s classic Morriss distraction.”
    So was the expanse of thigh. She left the hem where it was. “I didn’t realise you’d read psychology, Sigmund.” She knew damn well he hadn’t. He’d taken law,
and though he didn’t brag about it, he’d come away with a First. Bev sometimes thought his track was so fast he’d make DI before her. Not that he had it easy at Highgate. Some of
the station’s hard men gave him a hard time. The racism was less